Paschendale: Haig's Distasteful Victory
by Alfred von Schleiffen
Summary: My first and bloodiest Fanfic. Based on the same plot as All Quiet on the Western Front. In WW1, the British took a crossroads in the Ypres Salient resulting in horrifying casualties.
1. Ben Thompson

Paschendale by Alpha Leader  
  
In 1915, stalemate was beginning to show up all over the Western Front. For Russia, it was even worse. Tannenberg had taken its toll on Russian morale and forces. To the west, however, no-one was going anywhere.  
  
After von Schleiffen's right wing plan had failed, the Germans dug in around the borders of southwest Belgium. The French had hoped to pop a hole through the Hindenburg line before it was even created, not knowing that the real threat had been narrowly thwarted. As the Germans relieved more and more men from Belgium, and began to build up on what would soon be known as the Hindenburg Line, the British had joined the war effort in favor of France and Belgium. Because Germany violated neutral Belgium, Great Britain's ally, it was very obvious to the British what side they would take. In less than three months, seventy percent of all professional BEF soldiers had either died, or been taken from the front due to injuries. Less than 30,000 of the 120,000 troops survived up until this point.  
  
Because of her loses, Great Britain made a conscription army for the first time in history. Composed of young men who had no experience, and little more than six weeks of training, the tide turned for the Little Contemptible Army, which became a turkey shoot by itself.  
  
In the Ypres Salient, which is where our story first begins, is a young British soldier from Wales, who is often called upon by Tommie, because of his last name. On the other side of no-mans' land, is Erich Hoffman, a machine gunner for the 2nd Army.  
  
At that time, in the Ypres Salient, Belgium, it was raining weeks on end. It created difficulty for troop movements, and of course, all the waist deep puddles and shell holes completely prevented an attack.  
"We're going over the top again tonight boys," started Sergeant Barnum.  
  
"You're shitting me right? There's no fucking way we're going back out there! Chris was killed yesterday as we came out of the trench! The Germans have snipers all over in the shell holes," continued Derek Granger. "He received two in the helmet when he stood up for Christ's sake! If the lieutenant so much as blows his whistle, they'll just take aim!"  
  
"Derek, you're getting ahead of yourself," said Barnum.  
  
Ben Thompson came in to: "Well come on Sarge! Honestly, I was right behind him! Chris must have been full with bullets. You were at the front of the line, of course, but I was right there. The prospect of dieing isn't something that you want to think about-trust me."  
  
A brief moment of smirks and chuckling followed.  
  
Because of Ben's last name, it was often for people to designate him by Tommie.  
  
"Tommie, you wouldn't know the first thing about being scared. Being the first one over is worse," continued the sergeant, "you get a foot hold, hope that you won't get a bullet in you as you stagger upward, and hope that your body movement didn't warn the krauts of where your platoon is coming from." Barnum took a breath, "You can't look back because all your worried about is that you make it. That's not the case when you're commanding men. When you're a commander of actual people you just hope that the machine gun won't come towards your platoon and rake half your men of their feet!" Sergeant Barnum took another breath, "And when you get to the other trench; if you get to the other trench, you can't fight-all you can think about is if you led your own men into a deathtrap.  
  
"Okay, uh, we've been talking here about how Chris died, and what it's like to be a big brave sergeant, but the point is," private James Gambrel started, "we can't go back over tonight. Every one of you's forgetting that Chip Hanson got killed last night too. At this rate, we won't have a platoon in another week!  
  
A soft pitter-patter of rain began. The water dripped and trickled down the men's steel helmets.  
  
"Ah shit," complained a sentry.  
  
"Well," said Barnum, "there's nothing I can do about it." He started down the south end of the trench, and then turned around. "You guys better have your weapons all loaded and ready to go by sundown- the leftenant said this is going to be a big one.  
  
The men glanced at each-other, and then up at the sky. Dark blue clouds were hanging over Ypres.  
  
Gambrel nudged Thompson. "Let's get in our dugout before it starts to come down any harder."  
  
Ben wouldn't move.  
  
"Come on Tommie, I don't want to be out here when the rain starts!"  
  
Thompson staggered to his feet, and quickly bent his knees. The whiz of a bullet followed a second later. Gambrel laughed. Come on now, we've also got to reinforce our opening. I'm gonna get some wood and cigarettes from the leftenant.  
  
"I'll stay here then, and watch the opening."  
  
No sooner had James started walking southward, when the rain of sleepy sprinkles slogged into turrets of water. Gambrel started to jog. He needn't bend his head down to avoid snipers anymore-the rain wouldn't let them see shit.  
  
Ben slowly knelt down and wrapped his blanket around his body as tight as he could. He angled his helmet to keep the rain off his head, and went to sleep.  
  
"Get up you bastard!"  
  
Thompson awoke to Gambrel, standing over him, with his arms on his hips.  
  
"What the hell are you doing? Our opening caved in on our dugout! My rifle is in there, along with my helmet, rations, and dry clothes."  
  
Ben stirred and fell back to sleep once more. Gambrel wasn't taking it though, and punched his partner in the armpit. "Get up!"  
  
"Okay! Just.hold on." Thompson half went asleep again; but Gambrel seized his face and pinched his earlobes. "All right!" Ben screamed. He tossed his felt blanket to the side, and started helping Gambrel dig out what was left of their dugout.  
  
"You didn't have to do that James," said Ben.  
  
Gambrel let out a chuckle. "Of course I did. We're going up in about an hour."  
  
It took Thompson a second to realize how light it was, and how much rain was going on. "You're not serious are you James?"  
  
"I wish I wasn't. It's going to be slaughter. When we go over I'm intending to simply slump back into our trench as if I was wounded or something. We don't stand a chance you know?"  
  
Thompson completed his digging and felt Gambrel's rifle in all the mud. "Here it is. I don't know if it will work though."  
  
"It's okay Tommie. If it wasn't for you I wouldn't have a broken weapon, but it gives me another excuse anyway."  
  
"James, do you know what you're getting yourself into?"  
  
"Hey, I'd rather have King George breathing down my throat than a German. And in either case, at least I can guarantee my own life for another day."  
  
Ben Thompson gave up, loaded his rifle, shoved his helmet down, and prepared to go over the top. 


	2. Erich Hoffman

Erich Hoffman  
  
They were eating bread at the moment. Shelling wasn't often something that took soldiers off guard. However, this particular one sure did.  
  
"Jesus! Why the in the hell are they attacking now?" whined Roger Zelig.  
  
Hoffman answered first. "I simply do not know. Let's get down before it gets any heavier. It's too wet and cold out here anyway."  
  
The machine gunners removed the straps on their Maxim, and hurried inside. "We're going to have quite a bit of fun in the next hour I guess," said Odell Admaro.  
  
"Yeah guys-lots of fun," finished Hoffman. He managed a smile out of what was his mud caked face. It wasn't fun whatsoever, and he seemed to be the only man in his regiment that felt sick when mowing down helpless Tommies. Because he was the gunner, his friends could only watch with jealously as he pressured with his thumb the knob to release the bullets. Usually, they even attempted to keep track of how many men Hoffman caught. It was the most utterly bizarre turkey shoot anyone could witness. These turkeys, although smart and resourceful soldiers, would simply make a sprint towards their doom. Of course, that wouldn't happen tonight. Hoffman doubted that a single British soldier would make it halfway into No Man's Land. The mud, which was normally the most challenging obstacle, was now more or less a large, 400 meter long ocean of quicksand. Hoffman could recall the other night, when several platoons of Irish Tommies had drowned in the endless pan of brownies. How ironic, however, that they still shelled it, helping the brown monster to grow, even thicker, and nastier.  
  
The German 16 Division, also known as the Iron Division, had long since replaced their shallow trenches with metal and concrete bunkers, along with four or five rows of barbed wire. There were over ten pillboxes on Bellevue Hill both concealed in previous shell holes and on high ground as well.  
  
In front of Hoffman's regiment lay the Belgium Ravebeek stream which always flooded in the spring. This time, however, without any farmers, the stream converted to a rushing mud bog. The Tommies would have to utilize what was left of the raised Gravenstafel Road. During the other night's attack, the British 146th Brigade had managed to do so. However, the sun was to their rear, and assisted Hoffman with the making out of perhaps over 100 perfect silhouettes of the men. Zelig estimated somewhere around 25 men that were killed by their platoon.  
  
Just under a couple hours ago, the Iron Division had replaced most of the tired and starved German 2nd. Hoffman and his regiment had come a week early though-to bring up fresh ammunition and supplies.  
  
As Hoffman stooped down into the 40-foot-deep mass of concrete, he remembered all that, and how much easier it would be that night. However when Erich closed his eyes, and grieved, he found out that it would me much harder to kill an enemy that was no stronger than a mouse. . . 


	3. Erich Hoffman

Erich Hoffman  
  
They tensely sat down on their bunks. The sheets were neat and tidy. Wooden pillars six inches in diameter supported 35 feet of concrete. Hoffman could point out but one true disadvantage: IT TOOK A LONG TIME TO GET OUT. Every once in a while, his group would shuffle out of the bunker into the trench, and find that the Tommies had made it to the forward dugout.  
  
"How many Tommies do you think will come around Odell?"  
  
"My first guess would be several hundreds. Maybe a couple thousand if they're desperate enough."  
  
"Nevin, how many do you think?"  
  
Strom said, "Who in the hell knows. It could be any amount Tommies. Their conscription army just keeps getting bigger. The more people we kill, the more they send over here. This whole Ypres Salient is just one giant Tommie meat grinder."  
  
Yohan Ritter laughed. "Yeah, you're right. I wonder how long it will go on. In the Hindenburg line, I hear the French are far worse condition. Verdun's been going on for the past six months and the French have gone through some significant loses. A friend of mine back at Hamburg told me that our troops hold the majority of the forts at Verdun."  
  
"That's all grand Yohan, but it's not like that in the Somme. People like us, the machine gunners are all that's holding that place together, and it's in the Hindenburg line too," finished Hoffman.  
  
A massive explosion rocked the bunker. A howitzer had successfully hit the German line.  
  
"That's not good," whispered Ademaro. Voices and shouts were coming from above. "That shell could have penetrated part of our bunker."  
  
"Yes," said Hoffman, face slumped in his hands, crying from his grief.  
  
"What's wrong with you Erich? You've been like this since yesterday," said Zelig.  
  
"Yeah, sorry guys. I just hope I get home to see my brother in a couple weeks," he lied.  
  
Hoffman's three friends, Ademaro, Zelig and Strom approached him, as if awe stricken. They honestly hadn't seen their buddy like this before.- with the exception of the other night.  
  
Zelig put his arm over Hoffman's shoulder. "Look Erich, it's okay."  
  
BOOM! Once again a howitzer hit nearby.  
  
"Come on Erich," continued Zelig, "That last thing we need is a panic stricken gunner."  
  
The fools! They simply had no idea. As soon as the shelling stopped, he was going to stand up, go outside, and begin murdering teenagers.  
  
"You guys just do not understand. I'm sorry." He was about to say more, but the Lieutenant in charge of the infantry company Hoffman's regiment was stationed with hollered from up top that most of the shelling had stopped, and that the Tommies were coming on hot and full of strength.  
  
Hoffman gathered up the courage he had left, and prepared his mind to defend the Father Land. At that, he leaped to his feet, and raced up the three flights of stairs to his trench.  
  
Zelig and Strom were tasked with carrying the monstrous Maxim machine gun up, while Ademaro assisted with the ammunition. He would help by guiding the belt of brass death into the desired weapon, which devoured each and every cartridge, sneezing the bullet out through the barrel, and spitting up the empty shell casing at a rate of 600 rounds per minute.  
  
The team attained their goal at the top of the bunker, and immediately put their gun back together. The tripod came first, and then the barrel: an 80 pound hunk of steel and plastic with a water cooling system to go with it. Strom slammed the tripod down into the earth, and Zelig hoisted, with all his available strength, the barrel up on top of the base. Strom hit the dirt and gazed through his tiny set of binoculars the first men to attempt the Ravebeek stream. As usual, the people willing to brave the mud were sitting ducks.  
  
Strom's estimation was flawless. "Over there, 340 degrees!" Hoffman jerked the Maxim to the left and sent 43 rounds into the water. Hoffman could hardly see anything, so he almost never knew if he had killed anyone, but at the moment he didn't care. At the moment it was life or death. Understandably, Hoffman selected life. Ademaro guided the belt of ammunition into the grinding machine, as Zelig dashed off to BC for more.  
  
At 320 degrees, Hoffman shot off another 50 rounds, and fell into a killing frenzy with which his own life was involved.  
  
Strom halted any further firing, and examined the sights. "You aren't hitting anything! Let me take a lot at that!" Tweaking the knobs and needles, Strom managed to resolve the temporary problem, and allowed Hoffman to continue shooting. 


	4. Ben Thompson

Ben Thompson  
  
Thompson stood next to James Gambrel with growing resentment. It was horse shit. His friend was risking being tried of treason.  
  
A rotten, pale-green arm poked out of the bloodstained mud. Thompson looked away.  
  
"Do have any idea what the fuck you're doing?" he hissed into Gambrel's left ear.  
  
"Shut up. I'm not getting killed out there," Thompson's friend answered. "Just shut your trap before they find out what I'm planning."  
  
"Fine. Go ahead. Just you go and get those tiny, white, fluffy feathers. I hear they might give you four or five if you really did well."  
  
Machine gun fire chattered in the distance. Screams and wails from British troops to the south broke the silence. Starting to the right, Lord Kitchener's men were all eventually making their way out of the trench.  
  
The leftenant before them was having a lot of trouble. Thompson could see him, because of the way the trench twisted and zigzagged around. "Over the top!" the leftenant shrieked. After about 5 seconds, he yelled again. "Are you guys all bloody cowards?"  
  
His sergeant put forth a sentence Thompson never forgot. "Excuse me sir, but they're all fucking dead!"  
  
Thompson heard no more from that leftenant, for now it was their turn. Leftenant Richard Potter hollered at the top of his lungs the infamous statement, "Over the top!" Gambrel made his mistake early, and decided to show he was hit before anyone could even manage to stand up. Potter didn't pay any attention though as he slipped on the mud and made out a fake cry. Gambrel screamed though a muffled smile, "Ahhhh! Fuck! I've been hit!"  
  
The rest of the platoon had no time, however, and scrambled up the wall towards the German Iron Division. Thompson shifted his weight from side to side as the platoon weaved in and out of the barbed wire.  
  
Thompson gazed at Jimmy Hendricks as he keeled over, caught in the wire. Cuts and blood mixed in with mud littered his legs. There also was, of course, the large, gaping bullet hole present in Hendricks' thigh. He was gritting his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut in pain.  
  
It did no use to show compassion, however, so Ben Thompson just kept hurrying through the wire. After fifteen seconds, he was out and running for his life at the crossroads on the horizon. They were all this attack was for-to gain an intersection. Thompson then remembered the river of mud at the center of No Man's Land.  
  
Sergeant Barnum, who had originally trained in the professional BEF, made it to water's edge first. Yellow streaks of gun fire diced into the sickening sea of dirt. Barnum, with 70 pounds of supplies on his back, shifted it on his shoulders, before losing his balance as his knees buckled underneath him. The sergeant had been hit in the lung, and he was now drowning in the mud and his own blood, which was flooding into his chest at a rate that could not be helped. Barnum managed to choke out a surprised gasp and moan for help before his face disappeared in the 'quicksand' of earth.  
  
The rest of the men in Thompson's platoon took after the sergeant, and began wading their way to the horizon with their Lee-Enfields above their heads.  
  
Along with the rain and thunder were the splashes of gun fire colliding with the water and explosions of German artillery. Potter halted at a roasted, felled poplar tree and allowed the platoon to catch its breath. To the north-east were the dozen pillboxes. All of them housed multiple machine guns along with the hundreds of German infantry supporting the defense.  
  
Their leftenant confirmed all the men behind him were people he knew, and started off again. All of them knew it was suicide, and that it useless to even try, but notwithstanding they still advanced.  
  
Some fortunate platoons to the north were breaking through the center of No Man's Land, and had made it up to the 37 meters of German barbed wire. The reconnaissance trenches had long since been over run by British troops. Once the soldiers made it up to the wire, however, it was a completely different story. . . 


End file.
